


Tornare a Casa

by baku_midnight



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: JibCon fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen finds Misha on the balcony of their hotel room in Rome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tornare a Casa

When Jensen first went to Rome, he expected it to be wall-to-wall masterful architecture, glossy-eyed statues and honeymoon photo-ops. But then there are places like their hotel, this year with the balcony facing a back alley, leaning out over an eggshell brick road, mortared with urine and chewing gum. The wrought iron railing creaks and sags when they lean on it, spikes driven deep into the greying plaster of the balcony.

 

Misha’s standing outside, a heavily worn grey t-shirt clinging tight to his shoulders like a second flesh, plain white shorts subtly riding up his ass. He’s leaning over the railing, hands clamped down over the rust-brown bar, slouching as he takes in Roma in the early-morning sun.

 

Jensen slips out through the left-open sliding door and joins Misha there, but when his sock-clad feet meet the lathered cement, he stops. Watching Misha’s back muscles pull and twist subtly as he turns his head, attention caught by something in the street – people in the neighbouring building hanging their laundry outside, a cyclist peddling along on the cobbles, a woman in a smart pencil skirt walking briskly, heels tapping the sturdy limestone – he’s suddenly struck by the image of feathers, surreal, cool and white, pooling out from Misha’s shoulders. Just for a moment, they’re there, clear and skeletal, a swirl of pearl white, melting into the sky—

 

 _No_ , Jensen thinks, quickly shaking the imagery free. _My angel is not the same as_ his _angel_.

 

For Jensen, sexuality was never a puzzle, a mystery, a gift. It was a guidebook: it contained the rules on how to woo a woman, marry her, and start a family. And it’s not that anyone ever spelled it out to him in so many terms, it’s something he just…knew. Like, since he was born. Simple as that. And the rules had treated him well so far, up until four or so years ago, when this man standing on his balcony had wandered unceremoniously into his life.

 

Jensen draws closer, feeling himself be pulled along into Misha’s gravity. He can’t help but raise a hand and slide it across Misha’s shoulder blades, just in case. He receives a little sigh of gratitude, sign that his touches are welcome, and slides back across the opposite direction with pointed fingers, gently scratching Misha’s back.

 

The little sound of relaxation Misha makes, and the heat Jensen feels through the cotton of his shirt reminds Jensen of last night, makes his cock twitch hopefully with interest under the linen of his robe. He was hoping for another round (or two) before they left for the morning, but Misha’s change of wardrobe casts an unexpected damper on the idea.

 

“Did you change sometime in the night?” Jensen asks cautiously, pinching the offending t-shirt, worn water-smooth, between his fingers.

 

“I was cold,” turning a little over his shoulder Misha answers, and Jensen can’t help but notice how the answer makes him feel a little frosty as well, somewhere behind his ribs.

 

After a few minutes of rubbing circles into Misha’s back, pushing in, making twisting movements with his wrists, Jensen needs to touch skin, slides his hand up under the t-shirt’s hem. He walks his fingers up the ladder of Misha’s spine, opens his hand wide across the back of Misha’s ribs. They stand in the cool shade of the morning, sun not yet reached this side of the building, the air heavy with dew. It’s just cool air and Misha’s warm skin under his hand, the two of them on the balcony.

 

“I love this city,” Misha says thoughtlessly on a sigh, chest rising and sinking with breath under Jensen’s hand.

 

Jensen’s eyes drift slowly back to the man in front of him. “Me, too.”

 

They stand, Jensen swaying a bit to a tune in his head, hand pressed to the warmth of Misha’s back. After a few moments he speaks.

 

“You wanna get breakfast?”

 

Misha looks over his shoulder, eyes the state of his single pair of ripped jeans on the floor and crinkles his nose in distaste. It’s 6am, anyway. Probably a time zone thing. Jensen’s used to early mornings, but he agrees his stomach probably couldn’t handle more than some dry toast at this hour.

 

Misha turns away again and Jensen feels the way he’s recoiling, and hates it, suddenly wants Misha’s attention with the greed and ferocity of a two-year-old. He pulls at Misha’s shoulder and turns him around, backing him into the railing and stepping in close.

 

“Hey,” Jensen says softly, because he’s not sure where to start, eyes gliding attentively across Misha’s unreadable face. “What is it?”

 

Misha doesn’t answer, won’t answer, cool eyes radiant in the high light of morning. It’s something, Jensen realizes, that he respects in Misha, that he admires in Daneel, as well. The both of them are steadfast, no matter how strong the pressure to change and conform mounts, they won’t abandon themselves to the current stream. So often Hollywood types will fold in easily, change on a dime, betray themselves to suit the current company, the way Jensen himself did, too, at a time when he wasn’t sure anyone would care to hear what he had to say. You’d think having two such indomitably stubborn personalities in his life would be a cause of stress, but Jensen admires them both greatly for it, their rock-solid honesty. So if he doesn’t get anything out of Misha today that’s fine, he’ll just be grateful that he has _Misha_.

 

Jensen leans forward to gently kiss Misha, turning to catch his mouth sideways, the slow drag of lips like taking a pull of some sweet liquor. He hopes that touch communicates just as well as words might. Suddenly, all poetry seems inadequate against the backdrop of Rome, its effortless style, the roll and clack of the cobblestone outside, Misha’s warm breathing on his lips.

 

Misha doesn’t say a thing, just gets that thoughtful look in his eyes. His Adam’s apple dips in a swallow, and he sighs out a warm breath through his nose.

 

They exchange sympathetic looks a moment longer, and Jensen lets his mind stray to thoughts of next year. He’s dreaming of next year’s trip, making a plan in his head, recalling, like the perfectionist he is, what mistakes he made and what he’ll do differently next time. For one thing, he won’t wait until he arrives in Europe to talk to Misha. Next summer will be different, will be more honest, steady. As steady as a once-a-year love affair can be.

 

Well. Fuck that.

 

“Hey,” Jensen starts again, tucking his thumb behind the edge of Misha’s jaw, turning his face so he can look at Misha square. “This September. I’m headed to the Kootenays for a weekend for an industry thing, and Dee can’t make it. You in?”

 

So that’s a lie, and a pretty vacant one, given Jensen’s well-stated bias against industry pomp-and-circumstance. The truth sounds more like ‘I’m going on vacation to relax after the first month of shooting, because fuck if I can go eight months straight without wanting to throw myself off of a mountain’, but Misha probably knows.

 

Misha raises a pair of skeptical eyebrows at him. “A week alone with you?”

 

“Yeah,” Jensen says and strokes a thumb across Misha’s cheek, catching the soft whiskers on the pad. He never said ‘a week’, but he hopes Misha’s mis-recollection is a sigh of excitement and not disinterest. He looks down at Misha for just a few more inscrutable seconds, smirking suggestively, before the man rolls his eyes and turns away.

 

“Is that a yes?” Jensen eyes him, sidles up to match his hips to the back of Misha’s, gently gripping his waist.

 

“I’ll think about it.” Misha says over his shoulder, and Jensen smiles into a kiss pressed to the back of his neck.

 

“Alright, sweet thing,” Jensen mumbles and counts it as a victory when he hears Misha’s elusive laugh.


End file.
